Rome is Burning
by Inkpot satsuma
Summary: Post "A Scandal in Belgravia". Shameless Sherlock/Irene and shameless Baring-Gould refernce. Sherlock saved Irene's life, but didn't head straight back home. They're like two people from a separate species, and there are results.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters and places. All rights reserved to Arthur Conan Doyle, William Baring-Gould and BBC.**

**After watching SiB I absolutely ship Sherlock and Irene! I thoroughly enjoyed the tension, the equality of minds, the deadly game, the competition... and Sherlock's sulking. And Lara Pulver was astonishing.**

**Anyway, the episode made me remember Baring-Gould and this story just crawled sneakily up on me and refused to leave. There will be at least one more chapter (and three at most), and Irene will appear :)**

* * *

><p>John's laptop is broken. The thousands of fans that Sherlock somehow managed to accumulate while wanting the exact opposite will be disappointed with the lack of new adventures for a while. The man at the repair point claimed it was a case of need for a new processor, and John had no doubt he would be plucked off a sizeable part of his income this month, because the man's eyes gleamed when he gave the diagnosis.<p>

Funny how people get addicted to technology at such a fast pace that it downright cripples them when they're deprived of it. Bloody hell, he definitely feels as if missing a limb at least! There are so many things he needs to do on his computer (a bank transfer, checking his emails, an auction of Ebay that now is as good as gone for him…), and he can't.

He could use Sherlock's, of course. But the detective is not here – a few months ago he started coming out of his over half a year long sulk over Irene Adler's disappearance, and now he's on some case or other. When he plays the violin his choices are still restricted to the repertoire he played since meeting Adler to her disappearance, but he doesn't play such horrible quantities of sad compositions at least. And John knows that he will never have the heart to tell him what really happened to The Woman.

Sherlock almost never speaks of her – very rarely, barely three times exactly in the last year, but when he does, he always calls her The Woman. And John no longer knows whether it's an acknowledgement of her professional pseudonym, or is it a grudging and cryptic acknowledgement of something else entirely – of Sherlock's discernment of Irene Adler from all the other women in the world. Because to everyone who knows him, it is clear that she's an absolute exception in Sherlock's regard for others. To John it's clear that the cold detective had (or maybe even still has) surprising feelings for that woman, but even he doesn't know what they are exactly.

He doesn't know when Sherlock will be back, and a few emails in his inbox are really important. So is the transfer. What the hell – Sherlock takes his laptop whenever he pleases or is too bloody lazy to go to the other room and get his own. Just as well he can use Sherlock's now.

It's on the table, and John comes up only to see that it's not even switched off – just Sherlock's unoriginal, simply black screensaver. He hits the space key to restore some image, and frowns when he sees he's in Sherlock's mailbox, looking at a draft of a sent message. The voluntary reflex to read written words is quicker than anything else.

_Re: Description_

_Father's features are almost always clearly dominant in the firstborn._

_Nero is a poor choice of name. The sound of pronunciation is pleasing, but the historical implications are inept._

John feels his frown deepen. He understands the first line of the message – his medical studies covered some basic genetics, and also he understands why Sherlock would write something like that. A reply to a client, a tip or a clue to someone. But the second line puzzles him – in his professional replies to clients' emails Sherlock rarely expresses much personal opinion, especially… well, especially on such a subject.

He scratches the back of his head, taking in a long, thoughtful breath as he reads over the message again, but it doesn't tell him anything. The addressee is Clara Stephens – this also tells him nothing.

He's intrigued, bored and also (or maybe mostly) suddenly wants revenge for all the times Sherlock had commandeered his laptop without asking and then jeered at the contents. Without giving it much thought he closes the draft and goes to Inbox and easily locates the _Description_ email and clicks it open.

_Description_

_Two months. My forehead. Your eyes. Your delicious cheekbones. Nose hard to say yet, but I'm hoping for mine, no offence. My mouth. Your chin, jaws will be mixed, as far as I can tell. I'm predicting black hair, of course – for now baby fair. Nero._

He stares at the email, not understanding it, but he feels a large, sick ball forming in his throat and another one weighing down his stomach. He doesn't understand, or rather doesn't _want to_ understand…

No. Hold on. Why would… Sherlock… have an email like that in his inbox? John had a distinct feeling he was being stupid, but he couldn't help it – to him, the email sounded like a description of a baby, from one parent to another.

But it couldn't be that, it was absurd. He actually laughs, snickering and chuckling at the ludicrous idea. There had to have been something else, some fact that he isn't aware of and the lack of which causes him to interpret the whole thing… well… _wrong_.

Because it was wrong. Sherlock? How? When? And… well, just how. For now he decides to stick with 'how'. The 'how' alone makes his misinterpretation impossible to actually be correct. He takes a deep breath and reads over the original email again. The sense still is the same to him, but now he is actually being torn between terror and dismissal.

Sherlock… has… a… baby…? There, he thought it fully and coherently, and as he thought it he felt a bubbling sensation of almost hysterical amusement, but just for a moment. A typical reaction, he knows that from the medical experience.

No, it's impossible… there has to be something else in that email. Maybe it is some sort of a clever code?

A movement on the screen cut into his by now whirling thoughts – _new message_ appeared in the inbox. His breath stopped when he looked at the title. _Re: Description_. He could feel the skin on his palm ache as it sweated, his heart pounding, and he was fighting the sense of being overwhelmed. Should he? Can he?

His hand doesn't shake thanks to his nerves having been steeled and seasoned in Afghanistan, but his palm still is slightly sweaty as he clicks the new message.

_Re: Description_

_I chose Nero because in the retelling of the event in the Romanticism age he was said to have played the violin at the time of the fire. Even though it wasn't yet to be invented for a few centuries back in his time. I considered Hamish, but it didn't fit_.

He sits, ramrod straight and stares at the message, feeling the whole world disappear as he's being sucked into some sort of black hole. His mouth is dry and his heart pounds in his ears, obliterating everything else. The shock is too much, just… too much…

When he at last regains some control over himself (again thanks to his time in Afghanistan) the first thought he has is a memory. A memory of himself blurting out his middle name to break this strange, almost alien feeling that hovers tensely in the room when Sherlock and Irene Adler hold each other's gaze. The tension between them had been so thick that almost palpable, drawing them into each other, and John remembered the absolute incredulity with which he looked at Sherlock, not recognizing him.

"_John Hamish Watson… if you're… looking for baby names."_

Now the message. And the two ones preceding it. And the quip about the name Hamish…

Jesus.

He rubs his hands over his face as he exhales deeply, trying to calm himself, and tries to be rational, tries to look at the facts and just… just detach himself from them, just for a moment. For a moment he thinks, almost sarcastically, that he now knows why Sherlock opts for emotionless approach to things. Definitely less risk of a shock.

Or a bloody lifelong trauma!

He goes over the messages again, in chronological order. And still, thanks to the name Hamish, only one explanation remains possible to him.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock at last comes home, he is calmer, having came to grips with what obviously had to have happened. Now he just wants answers and he will strangle Sherlock if this is what it takes to squeeze the information out of him.<p>

Sherlock enters the room and his cold, almost alien eyes instantly focus on his laptop and on John sitting beside it, then they quickly brush over the expression on his face, and John knows his friend is fully aware of everything now. He wonders whether he should say something or let Sherlock take the ball… but then there's the risk he'll just ignore the problem and go to his room to be impossible to coexist with.

"Sherlock…"

"She's alive," he declares in deep, dispassionate voice, almost a murmur. "I ensured it."

John nods, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock did a triple level scam and performance and decides to think about that later. Or better yet, try to forget, because he might fall a victim to paranoia when he fully realizes the extent of Sherlock's manipulations. But what he just heard still refuses to come into his head and fit in there.

"But… how?" he demands, frowning. "I've seen the documents, you have her phone, Mycroft researched it thoroughly…"

He trails off as he remembers something, just as Sherlock's lips tug into the slightest sign of a smug, contented smirk. He remembers what Mycroft had said to him in that café…

"_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."_

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed :) I'm afraid John might have been a bit OOC, but it's rather late in my little corner of the planet, so excuse me if he indeed isn't himself.<strong>

**The next chapter will feature Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and... Nero. And most likely Irene. If not, she will appear in the third chapter. The next chapter, by the way, I assure will be better than this one. Or I hope so!**

**By the way, don't worry, there will be no unbearable Daddy Sherlock fluff. I would choke :P**

**Reviews are loved :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**The second and final chapter! Managed to get Irene into it :)**

**Thank you all for your reviews, you're all so kind :) And the ship of Sherlock/Irene sails on!**

* * *

><p>Apparently, the <em>Description<em> email was the first that Sherlock ever heard of… of the baby. Or so it seems from what he mentions reluctantly – it's harder to get anything out of him than to squeeze the last remnants of toothpaste out of the tube. And John doesn't really know whether to feel impressed or extremely disturbed at how perfectly normally (if that word is adequate in Sherlock's case) the consulting detective acted, how he didn't let anything on. He still doesn't – it's almost like he doesn't care. But John refuses to believe that. But he's impressed nonetheless – how many men would be able to carry on, business as usual, having just learned that they had managed to sire an unplanned child with a government-blackmailing woman who defeated them three times in total? It's almost creepy.

From the other things that Sherlock says (or rather, doesn't say), as well as from the very basic knowledge of mathematics and subtractions, John learns that Sherlock didn't head straight back home after settling Irene Adler in her new life, but stayed with her for a short period of time. Namely four days. And, apparently, one of those four days was the one when Nero was conceived.

He's worried. Irene Adler frightened him, and what frightened him even more (and does still) was the absolute disruption of Sherlock that she managed to cause. Now he's worried what impact the… the child will have on Sherlock.

Not that the detective seems to be losing any peace of mind over it. It has been three months now since John read the fatal exchange of emails, and Sherlock doesn't mention the subject, he carries on, being irritating, aloft and grumpy as always. There are moments when John wants to broach the subject, but he always stops himself, unsure what to say, unsure what he wants to hear. It's just such a strange, absolutely abstract thing that he has the urge to explore it, learn more about it.

No one else knows – neither about the child nor about Irene Adler's survival, and it goes unspoken that no one else should ever find out. Well, John certainly doesn't see it ever coming up in any of his conversations. Though sometimes he feels the tickle of that suicidal instinct that every human has, to say something about it when he talks to Mycroft. That explosion would wipe all of Baker Street to a shared grave.

He would probably be spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking about the shocking child with a bizarre name and a potentially combustive combination of genes, if it weren't for Mary whom he met just a few weeks before he read the emails.

Mary is a librarian and an avid fan of detective stories. She even has a complete collection of first editions of Agatha Christie's _Miss Marple_, something that really impressed him for some reason. Maybe because the old girl is Sherlock's favourite Christie character. They got off at once, she was nice and talkative, but in an interesting way, not a horrifying chatterbox. He asked her out when the three people in line behind him were giving off louder and louder hints of their impatience, and was grinning like a fool when she accepted.

The next day, on their first date, the subject of Sherlock Holmes the internet detective phenomenon quickly came up, and he held back telling her he's the author for as long as his own ego allowed him, wanting to know an honest opinion on his writing. She said she enjoyed it thoroughly and that she was sure books would make a killing. _Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, she offered a title. That was when he told her his surname is Watson. She almost squealed, and he laughed. He never supposed Sherlock would help him get a girl.

Now they are in an established relationship, and it seems it'll be the first he won't screw up. Or Sherlock won't screw up for him. Mary is strangely complacent about his friend, she doesn't have the allergic reaction that all of his girlfriends had towards the detective, and Sherlock usually ignores her. John supposes it's a trade-up from intentional malice and insults. Last week, Sherlock even helped him find an original edition of one of the twenty _Miss Marple_ short stories, for Mary's birthday.

Thanks to Mary, John's life gains that healthy dose of normality.

* * *

><p>Sleep is dull, of course, but sometimes even he has to accommodate with his body's basic needs. So when he at last reluctantly decides to go to sleep, he's irritated when something wakes him, leaving him half-conscious from the interruption of the rapid and thirsty intake of sleep that his brain was grasping.<p>

Everything is quiet in the flat, John is out, spending the night at Mary's, and not even one sound breaks the peace. But something woke him up, and he opens his eyes, as hard and impossible a task as it seems right now. The image centres slowly, reluctantly, from the general haze and blur, and he's angry with how heavy and unwieldy his brain feels. There is a light coming from the living room… and the door to his bedroom is open.

And in the door, against the vague light, stands she.

The Woman.

He sits up on an instinctive reflex, part of slowness evaporating from his brain, his vision considerably sharper, and he ignores the gooseflesh on his skin as his bare chest meets the cool air in the room.

She's dressed simply but elegantly, as always. Her hair is done just as simply but carefully, in the same arrangement it was when he first saw her. Her make up is fresh, professional and not extravagant – she applied it one hour ago at the most. Her red lips smile at him with smug satisfaction of surprising him, and he frowns in an instant defence and protest to her victory, however small it was.

In her hands she holds the handle of something that looks like a very large basket, but which he instantly knows to be a baby carrier.

The baby. Make up. A glimpse of a small suitcase left in the living room along with a small bag. He doesn't need to ask why she's here, it's clear to him – she's going away (having snuck back into London without his noticing it, he realizes with humiliation) in a matter of hours at most (so most likely a plane, especially going by the small name tag attached to the case, people only do that for plane travel, where the luggage is taken away from them), and she brought the child to deposit it in his care. So it means she's not going away for recreational purposes either.

He looks at the carrier again, and she smiles when his eyes meet hers. She shrugs lightly with a joking perplex.

"He wouldn't fit in the safe," she explains with a quirk of the corners of her mouth, and he feels his own lips respond in amusement. "Hush now," she smiles at him seductively as she places the carrier on his bed. He glimpses involuntarily and sees a sleeping five months old inside. "Not for long. Just about a month," she explains the details of what she knows he is aware of.

And how exactly does she assume he will agree?

"You were supposed to lay low," he reminds her grudgingly, ignoring the baby placed so almost alarmingly close to him.

"And I am," she raises her eyebrows in a mocking expression. "And I thought that being without a baby would certainly help me disappear in case of emergencies."

He says nothing, because he feels that whatever leaves his mouth will be used against him. Unless it's a question.

"Why?" he drawls.

"Well, where else he'd be safer than here? Paradoxically, of course," she smiles as she sits on the edge of his bed, and leans over the carrier, tenderly brushing the back of her index finger against the sleeping baby's cheek. Her eyes are sharp as always, but something new gleams in them, something soft and unexpected – affection.

He can feel the warmth of her thigh radiating into his hip through the thin sheet covering him from the waist down. That small, vague touch causes him to be irrational and remember the feeling of her warm body against his, back then, over a year ago. And as he recalls that, he also, against his own better judgment, remembers her hands roaming over his body, and his own hands tracing the contours of her shapes, memorising them all.

He's irritated, because the bare memory makes him almost want a cigarette.

She sees it, reads it all in his face and eyes, and smiles again, smugly, her eyes centred on his, and he feels his pulse speed up. She doesn't reach out, she makes him do it by simply sitting there and looking at him. Slowly, tentatively, he lifts his hand and reaches to her arm, his fingertips tingling when they brush against her exposed pale skin and travel up. She breathes softly and deeply under his touch, and the sound is so silky in the dark silence that it returns to him the confusing, simple desires he never felt before meeting her.

He remembers the taste of her skin when he experimented the flavour of her flesh, her nails digging into his back in a pain that somehow was pleasurable, and he feels the carving to taste it again. And in her eyes, he sees that she wants to repeat many things as well.

But they won't, of course. Not now. At least because they both keep in mind the fact that there is a baby on his bed. He looks at it again, analysing the pattern of the infant's facial features. There's no doubt or denial – the child is most definitely his and Irene's. His hair is even getting darker, as far as he can see – of course, only to be expected, since he and Irene both are black haired. For a moment he's actually curious to see how the recessive gene of blue eyes that they both have, worked for the baby. She wrote that the colour was his, but he was interested still.

"Fine," he hears himself say, almost unexpectedly, but at the same time not surprisingly at all. "A month. Or _I'll_ be putting him in a safe."

She smiles again and leans in. Her lips linger against his.

* * *

><p>John hears the violin play already when he stops at the steps to open the door to 221, and when he comes inside the building he can hear it more clearly. It's a slow melody, but thankfully not as depressing as they can get when Sherlock is in a sulk. He climbs the stairs and vows not to let Sherlock ruin his mood, because he was feeling bloody fantastic after last night, and no fit Sherlock Holmes could throw would change that.<p>

With that firm resolution he opens the door. And he stops dead in his tracks as he enters the living room, temporarily incapable of anything.

There is a baby.

There is a baby in the living room. It's laying in a quality looking carrier on the table, near the closed laptop, and Sherlock is dressed in his robe, slowly pacing around the room, playing the violin with an indifferent expression on his face. He notices John at once, but gives him just one look and continues to disregard everything except for his instrument.

"Sh…erlock…" John says weakly, finally taking a few steps closer to the table.

"Nero," the detective replies curtly and casually, carrying on with his music.

Well, yes, that much John had managed to grasp! Seeing that he won't extract anything from Sherlock for now, he approaches the table and looks at the baby. The first thing he notices is that it indeed has Sherlock's eyes – the icy blue irises look at him without much expression, as usual in babies. The child's hair is very dark brown, apparently turning black from the usual baby bright, but it's still rather fuzzy, again, typical for infants.

The boy is five months old, if his math and medial eye serve him right. It means he can by now sit and stack small objects together randomly, and a few other things he doesn't remember. It's been a while since he read anything on infants, but he isn't a paediatrician, after all.

Overall, the baby is definitely cute, and he smiles, as most normal people would, at the sight of a pretty infant looking up at them in interest. The baby returns the smile toothlessly, and he chuckles, reaching out to gently touch it, make sure it's real, because it just seems too absurd to be true. But it is real, and it even grips at the side of his hand curiously, and for a moment he experiences paranoia when he feels as if those eyes were analysing him.

Sherlock observes them, and slowly ends the music, looking tensed for a moment after he does, keenly watching the baby. He at last releases a breath of relief, and John looks at him, puzzled.

"He doesn't get quiet easily once he starts crying, apparently," the consulting detective explains. "Even Mrs Hudson wasn't able to do anything. Though the violin seems to work excellently."

"Mrs Hudson knows about… this?" John asks, feeling that in a moment something will snap in his head.

"Well, obviously, she came in when she heard the baby cry," Sherlock winced.

"But does she know that this… that you…" for some reason, finishing both versions of the question stands in strange defiance to John's speech abilities, and he relies on Sherlock to catch what he means.

"I didn't tell her," Sherlock shrugs, putting the violin away. "But maybe she knows. She's rather bright. In certain aspects, of course," as unusual as it is for Sherlock to pay someone a compliment (or rather, just a half of one), it certainly is true, Mrs Hudson does tend to know things sometimes.

As if on cue, there is a sound of knocking and a familiar voice as Mrs Hudson timidly wanders into the room.

"Knock-knock! Sherlock, I have an old cot after my daughter's baby, I could get it up here, a baby should have a proper bed," she suggests.

Sherlock frowns, slightly puzzled.

"He's only staying here for a month," he says, as if that made any difference, and John sighs, exchanging a look with Mrs Hudson.

"Even if he stayed here for a day, he should sill be able to sleep right," Mrs Hudson admonishes.

And so, half an hour later, Nero is placed in the cot and near a window, but not too close to it – a location picked by Mrs Hudson's motherly experiences. Sherlock doesn't object and doesn't participate. He sits at the table and stares at things through microscope. His phone issues a text alert regularly and he responds each time, apparently Lestrade again needs his help on some case.

John looks at the baby again just as it's dozing off, and he wonders. Sherlock doesn't seem emotionally invested, but at the same time… he's different. Slightly different. He looks at the cot sometimes, and there were shades of leaking emotions on his face when he played the violin to appease the baby.

John takes in the baby again, still amazed at the fact of its existence, but doesn't think about that anymore – there's no use anyway. Such a strange name, Nero…

"Nero what?" he asks, turning to look at Sherlock.

His friend rips himself away from the microscope and returns the gaze.

"Adler or Stephens, I suppose. Or something entirely fictional," he replies.

"Not Holmes then?" John asks. The look he receives is one of pity.

"Certainly not. She wouldn't want that anyway," Sherlock adds, and it surprises John a little.

"Right…" he looks back to the baby. "You know, he's rather cute," he remarks with a small smile. "A lot like you, too."

This time Sherlock looks at him with eyes narrowed in incredulity.

"You think I'm cute?" he asks in a dangerous voice.

"What? No!" John has no idea how Sherlock managed to get this conclusion. "Where did you get that?"

"You said he's cute and that he's a lot like me."

"Yes. _Apart_ from being cute, he's _also_ a lot like you. I'd sooner call Irene Adler cute than you, and that would be a stretch. She's not the cute kind."

"So if neither me nor her are cute, how can our child be cute?" Sherlock probes, and he no longer knows whether he's just reasoning in terms of logic or downright poking fun at him. He grits his teeth.

"Because all babies are cute. That's the general consensus. God, I pity Irene Adler, actually," he sighs. "If he's anything like you, she'll be in hell when he grows up."

There is silence for a moment, and Nero is fully asleep by now. John thinks a little about something.

"It's nice, the lullaby you played him though," he remarks. "Yours?"

"Yes," Sherlock's eyes are again glued to the lens.

"Nice," John repeats the compliment. "What did you call it?"

This time, Sherlock looks up from the microscope and smirks.

"Rome is burning."

* * *

><p>Mycroft visits that afternoon. When John goes to open the door and sees him on the other side, he has to fight the impulse to slam the door in his face and run to jump out the window and be as far from here as possible when the eruption occurs.<p>

"John," Mycroft smiles his usual smile without an ounce of amicability and comes in, and John is too paralysed to stop him. Then again, how could he? That umbrella certainly looks lethal.

"Hello…" he manages weakly after he closed the door and followed Mycroft into the living room.

The older Holmes stops abruptly at the sight of the cot and his younger brother sitting near it on the floor, buried in a mass of papers related to his current case. His eyes process everything almost as clearly as Sherlock's always do, but he doesn't analyse the baby thoroughly, not yet. Instead, he focuses on his brother.

"What's this?" he lifts his umbrella and points it at the cot.

"I thought Mummy had that talk with you," Sherlock replies indifferently, still browsing the papers.

Without another word Mycroft walks over to the cot and looks at the baby. John can see his face change into shock and quick disbelief when he takes in the child's features.

"Well, an unexpected turn of events…" he turns to mock his brother, but something catches his eye. Urgently, he reaches towards the baby and touches a thumb against its forehead, tracing the shape of it, moving to the eyebrow arches and to the line of jaws.

And his face shifts into horror, anger and hate.

"No…" he murmurs, as the identity of the child's mother sinks in. "No…How stupid can you be?" he turns furiously to his younger brother.

Nero starts whimpering, about to cry, clearly uncomfortable from the touch and the rise of voice, and John feels a defiance rising inside him against upsetting the baby. He's about to protest Mycroft's actions, but Sherlock beats him to it. In his own style, of course.

"Mycroft!" he hisses, reaching for the violin again. "Stop it. When he starts crying he won't shut up for hours, and I need to work."

Mycroft blinks and actually seems to have a twinge of human emotion in him as he moves his hand away from the baby. He clearly has second thoughts about scaring it.

"Sherlock," he speaks finally. "What is this?"

Sherlock only smirks and changes the tune of his violin to a Christmas carol _What Child Is This_. Mycroft scowls, shaking his head with disapproval.

"Very clever joke. So, was this an immaculate conception as well?" he teases Sherlock, and the detective flinches, as he did at Buckingham Palace, but regains his composure as he puts the violin away.

"No."

Mycroft seems to be handling it rather well, John thinks as he watches the older Holmes sit in a free chair, falling deep in thought while Sherlock ignores him. He definitely is doing well, considering the number of ways in which he could react to the fact that his younger brother managed to get his genes mixed with those of the woman Mycroft hates most of all females in the world.

John makes tea. Trivial, but it is a coping mechanism. Mycroft takes one cup when it's done, and he stands over the crib to look at the baby again.

"Well, congratulations, Sherlock," he says in a slightly weary and sarcastic voice. "This definitely will upset Mummy."

* * *

><p><strong>There. Out of my system now! And I managed to fit in in two chapters.<strong>

**I suppose I might have made Mycroft a bit too villainous, but I actually really like his character. Loved the strong human side he displayed in ASiB.**

**Hope you enjoyed! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Here I am, in the middle of my exam session. I should be studying, but instead I'm uploading another chapter... But the Fate is on my side! Here I am, reading notes for my next exam, and what do I see? A theory made by a man named Reichenbach! That's a clear sign that I should write a Sherlock fic rather than study XD**

**Anyway, I haven't see tRF yet (somehow I'm not dying to see it, but I'll watch it soon), I just saw the ending, and I'm trying to tie into what I saw. And Nero is really super intelligent in this chapter, but that's what I was aiming for.**

**I know this chapter is short, but read the AN after it, and you'll see why :)**

* * *

><p>Mummy remains undisturbed.<p>

Sherlock knows Mycroft will never tell her something as big as that, and he certainly isn't going to open up a conversation with her by telling her he's the father of potentially the most intelligent child of the decade.

Century, he thinks, looking at the photo Irene had emailed him. It's the first time she's done anything like that, and he thinks it's perhaps an emotional compensation for the fact she and Nero hadn't visited for ten months now. On the picture, Nero is very serious, looks straight into the camera, and doesn't really smile. Sherlock never smiled on his pictures either. Nero is only sixteen months old, but he already grasps the game concept of the Lucas Tower, his current best is thirty-one, while the perfect score is fifteen moves. He also has an above average attention span, capable of spending over half an hour on one activity, walks rather well and is able to draw a circle. Not that Sherlock expected anything else, really…

There's a strange tickle somewhere inside his chest and stomach, and he doesn't really know what it is, but he frowns as he comprehends one thing for sure – it's a feeling, an emotion, and it's undoubtedly connected to Nero and Irene. And it's caused by the achievements presented by the child he and Irene produced.

Actually, it's an interesting experiment, if to look at it rightly. He and Irene are both specimens of immensely valuable genetic material, their intelligences coupled with each other should yield fascinating results. Or so he tries to think when his mind centres on the subject of Nero. But somehow, for some reason he'd rather not name, he manages to think of it in terms of a compulsory experiment rarer and rarer.

He hears John get away from the window he'd been looking out and head across the room, and his first reflex is to shut the laptop closed, not wanting to be caught looking at Nero's picture, but he knows the effort would be futile – John's vision is excellent and he probably noticed the photo the moment he'd turned round.

"Oh, is that Nero?" he asks cheerily, approaching unceremoniously and hanging to peer over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Obviously…"

"Ah, he's cute," John smiles.

"Again with the cute?" Sherlock scoffs and closes the laptop. He's looked enough.

"So he's… what, sixteen months old now?" John does his math quickly. "Nice. Very… nice. Looks a lot like you, really," he remarks redundantly. Sherlock says nothing, so John feels somehow inclined to continue. "So… does he speak yet?"

"No…" Sherlock replies. Irene reported last month that Nero holds back from speaking – he's even yet to say his first word. A semi-frequent occurrence with high intelligence level.

John is surprised, he apparently didn't do his research.

"He doesn't? Weird…"

"Why?" Sherlock asks dispassionately.

"Well, nothing, I…" John trails off and scratches the back of his head. "Well, you know, you… and Irene… well, when he was here for that month I half expected him to start speaking in logical sentences," John chuckles.

"Many children only start speaking at the age of two," Sherlock replies. John chuckles, and he frowns, not understanding why. "What?" he asks carefully.

"Hm, nothing," John clears his throat only to chuckle again. "I just never thought you'd be an expert on child intelligence and development."

"Well, I never thought I'd be a father, life is full of those little surprises," Sherlock says tongue-in-cheek, getting up from the table to head for the kitchen and get himself some tea.

John smiles, shaking his head as he opens the laptop to look at the photo of Nero again. The little boy is really startlingly alike to his father, though the traits he takes from Irene Adler are also very visible. He notices the boy's raven black hair is combed alike to Sherlock's, and he smirks, supposing it was Irene Adler's idea of a joke. The toddler has high cheekbones, of course, as both of his parents, and it lends a downright disturbing look to his eyes – grand, distanced and… cold. Almost cold.

Apart from the initial shock and flashes of panic, John actually enjoyed that month Nero had spent with them. It was surprising, but… somehow pleasant. The baby didn't cry often, though when it did, only the violin would do the trick to make it quiet again. That, and a dab of vodka Sherlock had been secretively putting in the milk bottle. When John had discovered that, he almost ripped his brilliantly stupid friend's head off.

It was Mrs Hudson who mostly took care of baby Nero, and John helped out as much as he could. Sherlock not that much, but after a few almost tragic accidents of his childcare incompetence, John and Mrs Hudson decided it was better to let him shun some of his fatherly responsibilities.

_But_.

But Sherlock cared. He never said it out loud, but John remembers the signs, the surprising things – small things, but surprising. He remembers getting up in the middle of the night and stopping in the doorway to the dayroom, hoping to be unnoticed, when he saw Sherlock stand over the cot and look at the infant sleeping in it. The detective stood there for full ten minutes and probably longer, because after that time John quietly turned round and went back to his room. When he woke up in the middle of the night a few more times, he always saw Sherlock stand over the cot and look at the baby, quiet, somehow both relaxed and tense at the same time.

Once, just once, he saw his friend reach out, slowly, almost too slowly to notice the movement at all, and John held his breath, for a long, long moment thinking Sherlock will do something… _tender_, touch the child, stroke it. But he didn't, he just stopped his hand millimetres from the baby's head and stayed like that for a few moments.

Oh, yes, Sherlock Holmes cares, John thinks now as he remembers those moments. He cares, and it doesn't matter that he'll never say it.

* * *

><p>Irene visits every now and then. Sometimes with Nero, sometimes without him. She always does so unexpectedly, but also always when Sherlock doesn't plan to go away anywhere for a while. John doesn't know how she does it.<p>

When Nero is about two years old, he suddenly erupts with an extensive vocabulary for his age. Sherlock takes it with no surprise, but John can see he's rather content with the fact. On that visit, undoubtedly to Irene's future dismay, Sherlock teaches Nero the word 'dull'.

Two months later, the Reichenbach incident takes place. John is crushed and pained and shell-shocked. The image of Sherlock taking the jump, falling and hitting the ground plagues him whether his eyes are closed or opened. The crunch and grind of broken bones fills his ears along with the choked, wavering voice in which Sherlock asked the last favour of him. The only favour he wises he'd refused to give him. He doesn't want to have seen that, he doesn't want to remember.

Irene comes to the funeral. There is just a handful of people, and Mycroft is the only one to give a brief eulogy. She arrives halfway through it and stands in the back, but that alone forces Mycroft to stare at her for the rest of his speech, and stare at the child she's holding in her arms.

After the eulogy is over, John looks at her, for a long, long while, and wants to walk up to her and say something, but he can't. He just can't move. He's having a lot of those inability fits since Sherlock's death. And Mary is the only one who understands. So he doesn't come up to Irene, he just looks at her, and knows he won't be able to lower his gaze just a little and look at the boy sleeping in her hold. Because he wouldn't be able to bear it. She holds his gaze, calm and composed, as usual. And then she leaves. And even though they don't speak, he feels as though they just exchanged a few deep, thorough words.

A year later Sherlock turns out to be alive. John wants to kill him and hug him at the same time, and ends up (once recovered for the only second fainting spell in his life) crushing Sherlock in a fully intentionally painful grip, before hiving him a right hook. His best friend is even thinner than before, but so much stronger and confident than ever. Apparently he (with grudgingly admitted help from Irene, which tells John she did more work than Sherlock gives her credit for) had put Moriarty's network of crime to an effective end.

Irene begins visiting again. Slightly more frequently and longer than she used to, and Sherlock doesn't mind. He engages in some intelligence games with Nero (claiming he's doing it as an experiment, but who's the idiot trying to fool with that smile and look in his eyes?), and John still enjoys teasing him about having feelings after all.

He enjoys those visits from Irene, as surprised as he is – she still scares him, slightly, because she still is as free and independent and intelligent as always, and she doesn't have to pretend to be dead anymore, now that Moriarty and his organisation are no more. There are many visit John likes to remember (he almost feels like an uncle now, especially since Nero's real uncle is slightly ill-fitted for the traditional concept of the role), but the most recent one is definitely the most memorable…

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed :) As I said, this one was short, because originally it was supposed to be one long chapter, but I ran out of steam and time for the moment, so I cut it here, and there will be one more chapter :) That next chapter will describe this most memorable visit that John mentioned at the end... John is getting married, Sherlock is his best man, Irene brings Nero to the wedding - enough for the poor groom to barely make it to the end of the reception alive? ;)<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm terribly sorry that I didn't reply to many reviews I got for the last chapter! I was drowning in the swamp of exams and didn't have time, and I frightfully apologise! I love each and every review and I'm so happy you like the story :)**

**Here it is, the final chapter, I think I finally ran out of steam on this story, but anything can happen :P**

**Anyway, this chapter tells about that memorable visit John mentions at the end of chapter three. We finally get Nero being interactive, I hope I didn't make it too OOC fluffy. Enjoy!**

**To **Aussieflower**and **barus**, with thanks :)**

* * *

><p>Sherlock scoffs. John's decided to get married. What a notion…<p>

He doesn't even bother to ask why, because he's bound to get the 'you-don't-understand-sentiment' face and an illogical explanation. But really – it's been four years, and _now_ John and Mary decide to get married. Completely out of any sense.

And _he_ agreed to be John's best man. He doesn't really understand why. Well, because John asked, and he does like his friend, so he wanted to be nice and agreed. And ever since he did it, four months ago, he's growing to regret the decision more and more – wearing a fancy tuxedo, keeping the rings, organising this and that… well, those are not his first choices of free time activities. But he complies, because John is his friend.

Now is the day of the wedding, and he just got his suit from the cleaner's, and John is in his old room, trying to tie his shoes, and given his (eighth, so far) attack of nerves, it will probably take a good ten minutes still.

"Why do people marry?" Sherlock tosses into the space ahead of him, but knowing that Irene will hear him. Because she's here, too, of course. She brought Nero and is giving finishing touches to their son's ceremonial appearance. He's almost curious to see how it turns out.

"I've been wondering that," she replies, strolling into the room, so confident and light at the same time, slipping an earring into place. "And I figure it's because someone asks them."

"Oh, come on, you didn't get married just because people asked you," he scoffs.

"Well, no one ever did ask me," she smirks, her lips sharply red.

"Really?" he finds that hard to believe.

"Well, marriage is sentiment. And I don't attract the sentimental sort," her eyes are witty and clear, and he smirks, acknowledging her clever remark.

"Certainly not…" he holds her gaze, feeling the strong current trap them as they lock eyes. He feels the tension rise, and he finds that he enjoys it, in some strange way, both mental and physical.

He feels pulled towards her when she sits down on the sofa beside him, her bare knee brushing against his thigh as she tucks one leg flirtatiously under the other and looks at him. Her eyes are full of contemplation, insight and attention, and he knows she sees him the same way he sees her.

Again, as usually, when the silent tension grows so thick between them, she waits and forces him to touch her by being so close and not reaching out to him. She'd cracked him on that matter one day, long ago, and afterwards, as they lay panting and drenched with sweat next to each other, he had to admit silently that humiliation had never felt so good. And so he reaches out to her now, brushing his fingertips against her shoulder, rounding the pointy shape and ghosting his touch up her neck, with satisfaction observing her parting lips and closed eyes. Her skin is soft and cool, but it burns his fingers thoroughly, and he takes his time, slowly making his way over to the one lock of hair slightly out of place, and he tucks it better behind her ear.

He wants to kiss her, a simple, physical craving that no one else had ever managed to evoke in him, but he postpones the pleasure. Later, when there's more time, and they both are even more needy of each other. Dinner tastes best on an empty stomach, he thinks, and smirks, knowing she'd enjoy this pun. Maybe one day he'll tell her.

Nero walks into the room, face in a mild sulk as he clearly disapproves of his fancy clothes, and Sherlock observes him, even though he'd seen him many times today already. His son is four years old, possessed of intelligence far above the average for his age (something that was more than expected) and of an extensive vocabulary. Also, undoubtedly as a result of Irene's parenting, he is highly independent for his age, but doesn't seem to display any abandonment issues. Far from it, Sherlock many times saw Irene being affectionate with Nero, but of course she never mollycoddles the child – and he honestly couldn't even begin to image her doing so.

"I don't like the suit," Nero complains grumpily as he sits down on the sofa beside Sherlock.

"No one will care about that," he informs his son. "People think you're cute and they want to see you just as a cute child."

"I know," Nero explains. "They get angry when I'm smart."

Sherlock half-smiles, looking at Irene who bites her lower lip in an effort to stop a laugh, her eyes gleaming with wild amusement – clearly she'd just remembered an instance of what Nero was referring to. He'd have to ask her, he's wondering what effect their son managed to have on people.

"Because most people falsely presume they're intelligent," he explains. "And it humiliates them when they find out a child is so much cleverer than they are."

"Oh, he knows," Irene smiles wickedly. "In fact, he rather enjoys it."

"I'll bet," Sherlock drawls with a smirk.

Nero scowls, fussing with his tie, clearly he doesn't like the pressure around his throat, and Sherlock understands him perfectly – he's not fond of ties either. So he helps Nero loosen the knot a little (really, Irene did a murderous job, one inch tighter and their son would be blue).

"You can take it off after the second round of drinks at the reception," Irene smiles at Nero and touches him tenderly under the chin, and the boy nods.

"People see less when they drink," Nero states.

"That's right," Irene purrs with a smile, and with her thumb wipes a small smudge of chocolate from Nero's lower lip.

John enters the room, a picture of nerves and uncertainty, hands clearly needing something to busy with for distraction from his stress, and Sherlock snorts at the state of John's bowtie. Irene rises from the sofa and saunters over to the unfortunate doctor to amend his mistakes with the bowtie. Her dress is red and backless, and Sherlock enjoys the sight of her perfect spine and smooth, pale skin, taut and supple over her slim frame.

"Why aren't you ready?" John's sudden wail snaps him out of his recreational observations – his friend apparently just now had registered his presence in the room.

"I can be in seven minutes precisely, no need to rush," he replies with a shrug, sinking lower into the sofa and eyeing the suit he was supposed to wear.

"Then would you _please_ take those seven minutes now?" John asks in exasperation. "Really, I'd rather not be late to _my own wedding_, if that's alright with you. I checked it online, there's traffic on the way."

"Who gets married on a Sunday?" Sherlock exclaims into the ceiling.

"The sentimental kind," Irene provides, and John pouts pointedly for a moment.

Sherlock smirks. John is still rather intimidated by Irene, and he supposes it will never change. But he's also fascinated by her, and extremely fond of Nero. And in his present state of stress over possible lateness of their arrival, as well as concern on remembering the vows and a few other details, this complexity of feelings certainly doesn't help.

Oh, this should be rather _fun_!

* * *

><p>In the cab Nero plays Tetris on Irene's phone. He's rather rubbish at it, but considering he's only four years, two months and ten days old, his game abilities are actually incomparably excellent in his age group. The phone starts ringing in the middle of Nero's fourth round, and the boy looks to his mother instantly for instructions.<p>

"Reject, love," Irene says. "It's probably work, they know I took two weeks off, so I'm not obliged to answer."

"Hmm, what is it you do again now?" John asks, clearly in need of a subject to alleviate his stress.

"She works in advertising, as an outreach expert," Sherlock replies from his sullen pose in the corner, where he had been pushed. "One of the best, I hear."

"Oh," John acknowledges, raising his eyebrows and giving a nod. "Good. Nice."

Irene smirks.

"I know what people like," she says in her clear voice, and John nods again, this time with full, almost sarcastic understanding.

"Right. Of course…"

A moment of silence passes, striking Sherlock with insufferable boredom that he attempts to remedy by analysing the people on the streets and the history of cars next to their cab. Dull. But suddenly John, who sits in front of him, opposite to the drive's direction, lunges forward and grabs him by the jacket of his suit, eyes almost unconscious with rapid craze of fear and aggression.

"Did you take the rings?" the ex-army doctor hisses out in a voice that suggests terrible tortures to proceed should his friend's answer be negative, and Sherlock growls, trying to pry John's hold off himself.

"Yes, of course I've got them!" he snarls, at last pushing John away.

Irene watches the exchange with light amusement, while Nero with curiosity. Luckily, both of them were merciful enough not to voice the fact that Sherlock indeed took the rings, but Irene was the one making sure of their safekeeping in her purse. John would strangle his best man doubtlessly, and Sherlock suspected that could bring something of a bad luck.

* * *

><p>Apart from guests from both sides of the family and a few of John's friends, some shared acquaintances of John and Sherlock's are also present, roaming the lawn before the church, shaking hands, laughing, meeting each other and generally being excited over a frankly outdated ritual about to proceed.<p>

There's Mrs Hudson, of course, gushing lovingly over John a few feet away. Lestrade was also invited and should arrive anytime soon. And there's Mycroft, whom John invited out of something he called courtesy.

His older brother is standing by the gate, looking at them, and Sherlock deftly pretends not to notice his presence. Irene notices Mycroft also, and her eyes gleam with raw enjoyment and audacity. She bends, picks up Nero into her embrace, arranging him so she would support him with one arm, and, casting a straight look at Mycroft, she rests her free hand on Sherlock's chest in an affectionate manner. Mycroft flinches and looks away.

Sherlock bites back a smirk. He understands Irene's raw enjoyment of torturing Mycroft, but personally he feels indifferent about the subject. He asks Irene for the rings and goes to fetch them to John, leaving Mycroft on Irene's mercy, should she want to torture him more.

John is still nervous, but finds that speaking to people helps ease his anxiety. He feels an immeasurable relief when Sherlock produces the wedding rings, intact, complete and in all aspects fine. All the time he's had a daunting vision of his best friend somehow managing to misplace them. Sherlock doesn't say much, but his presence calms John, and he smiles, seeing the twinkle in the detective's eyes – he won't say any congratulations, but John can tell his friend is glad for him.

"Good luck," Sherlock remarks with a mixture of smile and smirk and John takes a deep, calming breath, pocketing the small box with rings.

"Thanks…"

The next moment John's exuberantly emotional and affectionate aunt approaches, and Sherlock doesn't manage to make his escape in time. John snickers – Sherlock is downright frightened of the woman, ever since when meeting him for the first time, she grabbed him into a tight hug and pressed kisses on his cheeks, just because he's John's friend. After receiving a sound welcome from dear Aunt Myra, Sherlock meanders away, and soon John can hear Irene Adler's clear, mocking laugh ringing in the air, and he grins.

Lestrade arrives a moment later, just narrowly missing Aunt Myra. He looks a bit weary – probably the divorce getting to him, but his grin is genuine when he shakes John's hand. John truly appreciates his coming, considering that in his present state, Lestrade might not be too fond of marriage.

"All that's best, John," the inspector smiles.

"Thanks, thanks for coming."

"Well, of course I had to, it's not every day I get to see Sherlock as a best man," Lestrade grins, and John laughs. "Eh, if I were you, I'd be worried he'll want to give some toast speech. God knows what he might say."

John laughs, nodding. He can see Lestrade is looking around, as if searching for something, and he knows exactly what it is. Lestrade hadn't seen Nero yet, he only heard that Sherlock had managed to get himself procreated, and now John can see curiosity eating him up. Lestrade catches his look and smiles, almost sheepishly.

"Alright, I won't lie, I _am_ curious," the inspector admits. "Where is that kid?"

"Uh, I can't see him now," John looks around, noticing Nero is gone somewhere, and so is Sherlock. "But that's the mother," he nods towards Irene Adler who is currently making an acquaintance with one of Mary's cousins.

Lestrade's eyebrows travel almost all the way up his forehead as he takes in the stunning woman a few metres ahead of him. He looks at John, as if to make sure he's looking at the right person, and John only nods. Lestrade sighs briefly.

"In what fair world does Sherlock Holmes get _that_, and I get my cheating wife?" he asks, half-bitterly and half-jokingly, and John chuckles.

"Oh, believe me, they deserve each other," he says. "They're both manipulative, haughty, disturbingly clever, and love to outwit each other. I'd say it's a match made in heaven, if either of them believed that sort of thing."

And then his heart soars – Mary's mother's car pulls up, and he sees his soon-to-be wife. And all the stress magically disappears.

* * *

><p>The ceremony was nice, if one enjoys that sort of thing, Irene thinks as she exits the church with a swarm of people, having wished the happy couple all that's best. Sherlock is off somewhere, probably hiding from females, and she let Nero stay with John's little cousin that he'd just made an acquaintance with. She's not scared of misplacing him – the terrain is limited, and Nero is a smart boy (much like daddy), he always can find her.<p>

As she looks around, she spots Mycroft Holmes seated on a bench nearby, inherent umbrella in his hand and for once not trying to avoid her gaze. For some reason, she deems it the right opportunity to finally tell him something he should have heard a while ago, and strolls down purposefully to meet him, joining him on the bench. He tenses, but doesn't get up and go away.

"Good ceremony," she comments lightly, looking at her lover's brother. "John's happy."

He nods slowly, looking at the people gathered before the church. His eyes suddenly grow cold and almost scared, and she doesn't have to follow his gaze to know that Nero is in sight. She sighs, crossing her legs and fixing the elder Holmes with a pointed look.

"You do need to get over yourself, Mr Holmes," she states, and that at last turns his head towards her.

"Excuse me?"

She scoffs softly, glancing at her son who is now accompanied by his father, the two engaged in some brief dialogue. Sherlock apparently hadn't yet discovered that, unlike in case of women, having a kid with him doesn't help him get rid of unwanted admirers. Women swarm to men with kids. Unlike in reverse.

"Thinking I deflowered your little brother just to get at you seems a tad self-centred, don't you think?" she asks Mycroft, and he scowls. "You know, Sherlock did grasp that Earth revolves around the Sun… maybe you should notice that it doesn't revolve around _you_."

"What are you getting at, Miss Adler?" Holmes the elder asks her impatiently, fingers tapping against the handle of his umbrella.

"Oh, nothing in particular," she coos at him with a smirk. "Only that I'm not at all interested in being your nemesis. And that your brother's heart is quite safe. Because we both know quite well that he has one."

Mycroft Holmes looks at her pensively for a moment, analysing her, and she lets him, waiting patiently for him to speak. He delays the moment by reaching to his pocket and pulling out some cigarettes – the packet is still foil wrapped, unopened, but the dents show it's been bought some time ago, probably carried as a mental security. And going by the state of Holmes' fingernails and that packet, she can tell she's just making him smoke his first cigarette in a few good months.

He offers her one and she tilts her head to side, looking at him with pity.

"I never smoked much, and I quit entirely when I knew I was pregnant. What kind of mother do you think I am?"

"An unorthodox one," Holmes hisses, lighting the cigarette. A good, expensive brand. "My brother's heart is safe…" he muses as he exhales.

"At least from me. I assure you I've no intentions of breaking the little thing," she purrs.

"Interesting. Are you saying you love my brother?" he asks forwardly.

"Love is a petty word Mr Holmes," she informs him with a smile. She lets the words sink into the older Holmes' head, before she rises from her seat contently. "Well, I'm glad we've had this little talk, Mr Holmes… though I think calling you Uncle Mycroft might be more appropriate," she smirks. "I'll be staying with Sherlock for a while, John's leaving on the honeymoon, and he'll need someone to solve cases with and make sure he's not dead. Feel free to drop by," she can't help herself as she tortures him just a little bit more, and leaves him with a light, friendly tap on the shoulder.

She saunters over to Sherlock – her wonderfully, bestially intelligent lover is standing aside from the crowd, tall and bloody sexy in the tux, and she brushes past him as she rounds behind his back to stand by his side.

"What did you say to him?" Sherlock's deep voice is soft as he doesn't even look at Mycroft, instead he traces Nero with an attentive look, their son mingling with a few other kids. "The last time he had that face was when he realised you're Nero's mother."

"Oh, we just had a little overdue talk, darling," she purrs. "Just letting him know the world isn't necessarily revolving around him…"

"Well, quite not, it's going around the Sun," Sherlock remarks dead serious, and only the twinkle in his eyes as he looks at John gives away his joke. She chuckles, causing him to look at her, and she's pleased to see the desire flash briefly through the cold blue of his eyes.

They stay silent for a moment longer, watching John and Mary talk and laugh and receive repeated congratulations from many people outside the church. All gather into group when Mary performs the quaint tradition of tossing the bouquet, and Irene smirks when, out the corner of her eye, she catches Sherlock's disturbed glance towards her.

"Don't you worry, darling, I won't rush and catch it, I'm not _that_ cruel to you," she says, and Sherlock responds with a deep hum in his throat, a mixture of a chuckle and acknowledgement.

They watch Mary laugh for a moment with John's cousin who caught the bouquet, while Harry (John's lush sister, she can easily deduce) sulks some distance away.

"You lied though," she feels her skin ache in gooseflesh as Sherlock's breath and murmur wash over her ear, the detective leaning in a bit to her to whisper his words.

"Oh?" she doesn't look away from the happy couple. "When? I'm sorry, you'll have to be more specific," she smirks.

"Someone did ask you to marry, once," this time, she turns her head to look at him. His cold blue eyes are analysing her, and their coldness comes from nothing but colour – their expression is strong, intense, even passionate, and… dare she say it? Maybe even a hint of instinctive jealousy.

Because he's right, of course, this awful man.

"Quite," she agrees with a small smirk. "Godfrey Norton, a hot young barrister who once did me a favour."

"And?"

"Well, you know I didn't accept," she rolls her eyes. "He was sentimental. Sentimental to the point of not realising that _I_ wasn't."

Her words stick to him. They are sheer, plain truth – people who are sentimental often make the mistake of thinking the subjects of their feelings shares that trait. He looks at her, letting those wondrously true words ring through his mind, and he thinks she's never been more beautiful than she is right now.

He at last gives in to the urge that had buzzed in the back of his mind all day, and kisses her. It's slow, sensuous and lingering, and he doesn't care about Mycroft watching. He lets his hands slide down Irene's sides, to rest on her hips, and he feels a small electric charge raise the hairs on the back of his neck when she moans softly into his mouth.

They pull away in time to see John and Mary get into a festively decorated car, and Sherlock remembers he's supposed to stick through the wedding reception, the predicament owed to his position as best man. He and Irene head for another car, Nero duly finding them just in time, which pleases Sherlock, as it shows the boy's intelligence.

In the car, saddled with the misfortune of being driven by John's cousin and her husband, Sherlock envies Irene her position as a mother, which allows her to ignore the painfully dull conversation by focusing on their son.

But soon he grins – he knows that however murderously dull the reception might be, Irene will be just as bored as he, and would be eager to help him cause absolute mayhem. And John would be too happy to even whine.

Oh, yes. This day will be fun.

* * *

><p><strong>There :) Hope you enjoyed! Originally I planned to do a bit of the reception and Sherlock and Irene spreading some bedlem (thus setting a wonderful example for Nero), but I didn't feel like it, sorry. Maybe one day :)<strong>

**Thanks so much for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**At last. Took me a bit, but there it is... I got snagged a little on one scene, but managed to bushwhack through it. Anyway, tried to slip in some adorable-ness with Nero... hope you enjoy :)**

**For How Now Meow. Check out her awesome story _Against the wind_, by the way.**

* * *

><p>It is with a profound sense of escaping death by choking that Sherlock almost jumps out of the car while it's still moving. He can feel Irene's contemptuous look burning into the back of his neck, but he doesn't care, not really – his intellectual sense of aesthetics was almost smothered just now!<p>

John's cousin and her husband, with whom he and Irene had to catch the ride, are the most obnoxiously chatty people – chatty in that merry, warbling way of people delighted with their own silliness, and who have to rant, no matter what the subject. The sillier the better. And so he spent the last thirty-seven minutes and forty-three seconds of London noon Sunday traffic jams with his temple pressed against the soothingly cool glass of the backseat window while his brain was being drilled to death with absolutely cliché nonsense on marriage, reminisces of the happy couple in the front seats, anecdotes about people he didn't know, and occasional squeals of delight over his son. Irene clearly was having a good time pretending to be interested in some bits of conversation, but he failed to see the amusement or join into it – hence his disapproved disembarking from the vehicle as soon as it rolled onto the parking lot.

"God, where do idiots come from?" he hears Irene's weary growl beside him after she finishes trilling dishonestly enthusiastic thanks at the married couple.

"Usually, they're born," he growls, longing for a cigarette. He remembers he saw Mycroft smoke some earlier, when Irene spoke to him – and he's so annoyed by the silliness of chatter around him that he's honestly almost ready to debase himself, asking his older brother for a fag. Or a whole damn pack.

"Mum."

"What, darling?"

"I'm going to look for Mark," Nero declares, looking at Irene with a mixture of being informative and asking for permission, and for some reason Sherlock feels glad the boy inherited his eyes. It's strangely interesting and thrilling to see such a prominent feature of himself in his offspring.

"Go ahead," Irene doesn't add any warnings or instruction or other typically motherly jabber, because they both know it would be unneeded, if not offending, to their son. He knows all that, after all.

Nero is off, mingling quickly into the thickening crowd of guests, and Sherlock _really_ wants his cigarette now. Where the hell is Mycroft when he's needed…?

"Speaking of idiots, where is John?" Irene asks with a small smile, and he smirks as well – John had long since gotten used to being called by that name. After all, practically everyone deserved it.

"Probably inside already… Irene?"

"Yes, my darling?" she's not looking at him, instead she's watching the people in the crowd, caught by their details and words and expressions, and he experiences an unexpected bout of jealousy over her attention. Usually, he has it monopolised when they're together (just like she has his, he must admit), and he finds he doesn't very much like any aberrations from that order of things.

"I'm bored," he complains.

"Please don't say that. I spent a ten-hour flight once with a four-year-old who kept whining the phrase, and I must say if there was ever any doubt he's your son, the manner in which he kept whining, erased it completely."

Sherlock scoffs, stuffing his hands into his trousers pockets. The ride with John's cousins strained his mental immunity quite severely, and he needs some entertainment to ride it out. He sees Irene glance at him, and he sees a spark dance in her eyes.

"Let's go inside," she says, brushing a fingertip under his chin, and it sends a cascade of tingling ache and delight down the skin of his neck. "Let's make sure the party is not so awfully dull…"

* * *

><p>Mycroft felt he was watched – a cold sensation in the back of his neck – and he turned round, his eyes meeting empty space before darting down as he realised the height of his observer is much humbler than he'd instinctively expected. Much humbler indeed.<p>

There is a pair of ice cold eyes, so bright blue that almost impossible to make a comprehensive contact with, and for a moment his breath stops. It's a moment of humiliatingly stupid weakness, in which he feels thrust back about thirty two or four years back in time, when little Sherlock used to look at him that way. But the brief moment of insanity is quickly waved away by the reality and also by the clear marks in this boy's facial features that take all of Mycroft's willpower not to scowl. He can see The Woman's forehead, eyebrow arches… the boy will have more of her nose than Sherlock's, too. And damn her, she combed his hair the same way Sherlock wears it – her idea of a joke, he supposes.

He looks at the boy, the frankly impossible child – the idea of the Holmes lineage continuing was so sheer an abstract for so many years that he still had embarrassing moments of difficulty to fully grasp the boy's existence. Well. Not that the boy's name is Holmes anyway, he reminds himself with surprisingly mixed feelings. But he prefers not to delve into those. Feelings never lead to anything good. In Sherlock's instance, they led to an elaborate ruse defying his brother, an almost real suicide and siring a child with the woman his brother loathes most of all.

"You're my uncle," it's a statement, made calmly, not even a conversation starter. Mycroft wonders if either Sherlock or that woman told the boy who he is to him. Somehow, it doesn't seem likely.

"Yes," he replies therefore, because he doesn't really know what else to say.

"Why you don't visit? You don't like Mum, but why else?"

He's taken aback, to say the least. He doesn't often talk to children directly, in proper conversations (last time in 1998, he thinks), and to top it all the question isn't really an easy one to answer. He's not even sure _how_ he should speak to the child… there's no idea in his head at all, concerning anything about the boy, and it scares him. Like a white sheet of paper, no plan, no strategy, no _ideas_. He clears his throat.

"I'm not really a visiting person," he replies.

"You're visiting John now."

"He invited me."

"So Dad doesn't invite you?"

_Dad_. For God's sake… the word clashes with the essence and idea of 'Sherlock' so much that he can't mentally digest it.

"No, he doesn't," he's getting strangely tired with the conversation.

"I think my Mum likes you."

"…What…?"

"She thinks you're funny."

"How delightful."

"Me and Mum will be with Dad for a while. You can visit."

"Could…" Mycroft corrects the boy on a reflex.

"Could," he can see the four-year-old mind absorb the correction like a sponge.

The boy keeps looking at him expectantly, and there is such unforced intensity in those eyes, that for the first time in his adult life Mycroft feels compelled to answer to an unspoken message.

"I'll see," he replies curtly. He suddenly feels the need to go away – this child awakes feelings in him, unpleasant sensations that he doesn't want to analyse and therefore preserve in himself.

The boy nods. And then, with excellent manners seasoned with charm he could only have learned from his mother, he extends his hand in a perfect gesture.

"It was good to meet you."

It takes Mycroft approximately seven seconds before he, at last, slowly, tentatively, closes his own palm around the small, warm hand.

Nero smiles.

* * *

><p>"I'm not a great supporter of marriage."<p>

It is, perhaps, the worst opening of a best man's speech that ever was invented, and John rapidly regrets his choice of Sherlock for the role. But it is too late now, the bloody man is standing beside him at the end of the table, ready to get his speech through to the end (oh, God, what _else_ will he say?), so unless Doctor Who lands here in his TARDIS right now and offers John a trip back in time, nothing can be done. So with resignation he seeks solace by squeezing his newly wed, quietly laughing wife's hand, and counts the seconds of Sherlock's remaining inspiration. Unfortunately, Irene Adler stares at him with blazing, intense eyes, and that more than anything gives Sherlock the inspiration to top himself – John knows that with merciless experience.

"I don't see much point in it," Sherlock continues. "It doesn't make sense to me, especially seeing as, if not framed with the proper financial securities, it can lead to considerable losses in the future – one in three is the ratio of divorces, nowadays."

Most people laugh, luckily taking it all as a comedy stunt. Sherlock catches Irene Adler's flaming gaze, and John wonders that the tablecloth doesn't combust spontaneously at the (frankly disturbing) fire that flashes through Sherlock's own eyes.

"But I respect John, therefore I trust that he made the right choice and decision for the sort of life he wants to lead, and that suits his intellectual level."

"Yeah, thanks, Sherlock," John interjects, causing another salve of laughter. He and Sherlock exchange a grin. Apparently, people like what they do now.

"I won't talk much about John and Mary's love… to be frank, I don't recall when exactly was it that he met her," Sherlock puts on a focused face while people laugh again. The man could be a comedian, if it weren't for the somewhat sad fact that 99% of the time he's serious. "But I will say that they seem admirably suited for each other. Also, a lot says for Mary's good will and patience, for not dumping John as his many, _many_ previous girlfriends because he helps me catch thieves and killers."

More laugh and John feels the urge to throttle his best man for the girlfriend mention. Mary, however, finds it funny and squeezes his hand, trying to lighten his murderous mood. She looks so beautiful in white… hell, right now he can't wait to get the reception over with and get ahead on the honeymoon.

"Your input, John, by the way, is of immense value, even if not always in the way you think or intend – thank you for that," only Sherlock's thanks can possibly be so thankless. "It was suggested to me that I read a Shakespeare sonnet as a part of my speech, but after browsing through the man's works I found none that was suitable enough. I think that a quote from the book of one forensic pathologist will be more adequate here, for he moves something that by simple minds might be considered the essence of life: _When the head is severed from the spine and only the limbs remain_-"

"Alright, that's it!" John snaps at last, standing up to brace his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and push him down into his chair, accompanied by the uproar of laughter from all the guests.

"You wanted me to make a speech!" Sherlock protests. "I'm making a speech!"

"You've said enough," John mutters while Mary's mother prepares to give her speech. "Here, take a snort and be quiet…" he pours some champagne into Sherlock's glass and takes his own seat next to a giggling Mary, and wishes she were a touch more severe on Sherlock. He only gets worse when he sees people approving of him.

Though in the field of approval, unfortunately none is more gratifying to the haughty detective than that of his lover, Irene Adler. And today she seems to be overfeeding him with it. John can see her leaning in to Sherlock and purring something sensually into his ear, and he looks away, trying to focus on his mother-in-law.

* * *

><p>People are mingling, dancing and eating, and Sherlock is put off by the fact that Irene is away from him, currently dancing with someone. She congratulated him on his little mayhem during the speech, and promised to later, along with him, stir up some more of it. At least that much consolation.<p>

A small hand touches his sleeve.

"Dad."

It's so surreal, unnatural and unfamiliar that he has to process the word from the biological angle to finally come to terms with the fact that it's a name for him, one of his functions now. He looks down from askance to see Nero looking back up at him, and he experiences a strange moment in which he thinks that it feels like exchanging a glance with himself.

"I asked Uncle Mycroft to visit," his son informs, good vocabulary for a four-year-old, but the pleasing fact is pallid and nonexistent in comparison with the sense of his words.

"Oh, wonderful," he drawls, looking ahead. "Tell me when, so I can get out of the country for a few days."

Still, rather pleasing that Nero recognised Mycroft as his uncle without ever been told he even has one. That definitely vouches well for Nero's intelligence and reasoning and deducing abilities, and (despite the looming threat of his brother's visit) Sherlock is pleased with it.

"Nice speech, Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice announces his arrival, but the inspector's eyes are mostly stuck on Nero, instead of the man he's addressing.

Sherlock doesn't see why they're all so curious and obsessed with Nero. True, he never planned to be a father, he never imagined the fact even, and had to take a few moments (or days) to come to grips with the situation, but he cannot see why it was such a sensation among the Scotland Yard inhabitants. Honestly, they keep following Nero or him or both during the party, and if that lot follows criminals as discreetly as they follow him and his son, then no wonder they keep needing his help.

Irene was a sensation as well, but that's rather her nature. She's a sensation wherever she goes, he thinks. To him, too. Though, in a whole different way, of course. He's nothing like those plain, simple minds she used to screw (quite literally) off knowledge for living… omitting the unfortunate jumbo jet incident.

"Hello there," Lestrade grins at Nero. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" he asks, looking back at Sherlock.

He shrugs.

"What for, you already know who he is. Nero, this is inspector Lestrade. I help him out on his cases sometimes."

"Hello," Nero smiles in a way that is both sweet and charming – Irene's influence.

"Hello, young man," Lestrade shakes Nero's hand, and is treated to a dubious and almost contemptuous look – so much so that Sherlock feels proud.

"I'm a child," Nero informs the DI as if the man were biologically unaware. Lestrade looks perplexed for a moment.

"Right, right… of course you are," he looks up at Sherlock. "Well, you can rest easily, no doubt he's yours."

"I never had doubts," Sherlock frowns dismissively. "His appearance is a sufficient testimony to being related to me in a direct line of descent."

"Whatever. Anyway – hard to believe you're a father, I didn't see that one coming."

"He is my father," Nero puts his three cents in. "And Mycroft is my uncle," he shares his newly obtained piece of information.

"That's right," Lestrade grins. "He's your dad's brother."

"I know," Nero again looks at him as if he were an idiot – because Lestrade isn't aware Nero never was told he had an uncle, he has no idea that Nero was just presenting his newest deduction instead retelling a meaningless, conversationally misplaced fact.

"You like the party?" Lestrade asks, smiling in that particular way that most adults reserve for babies.

"Yes," Nero replies with a solemn nod of head. "It's fun, and people are very interesting. And the cake looks good," he adds, causing Sherlock to smile, while Lestrade chuckles in that strange delight people seem to become infected with around small children.

"Darling!" Irene's airy, fresh voice reaches from behind, and he looks over his shoulder to watch while she sashayed towards them, hips swaying in an elegant, almost energetically rhythmic way.

Lestrade stares, forgetting himself for a long moment, and even Nero running up to meet Irene halfway through, doesn't seem to break his focus. Irene picks Nero up into her arms and places an almost artistically beautiful kiss on his cheekbone. Sherlock thinks that surrounded with his mother's taste and elegance, Nero will certainly grow to be an aesthete.

"Hello, inspector," Irene smiles at Lestrade who takes a moment to realise that by convention, he should return her greeting.

"Hello," he says, and clears his throat, shaking her free hand. "I'm Greg. Greg Lestrade, DI… Greg is fine."

Irene smiles in that radiant way that leaves a tinge of predatory sharpness lingering about her features, and her eyes sparkle with all the clever, ego-destructive quips she could fling at Lestrade with absolute, coyly purring effortlessness. In that moment, Sherlock supposes that it's all the unsaid in her eyes that is one of the things alluring him the most.

"Very sweet to meet you," Irene replies in a voice touched with that tinge of mockery held at the ready, but not released just yet. She places Nero back down on the ground. "I heard a thing or two about you."

"And I'm very glad to meet you at last."

"Thank you. Darling," she turns to Sherlock, laying a hand on his shoulder. Her nails are blood red, matching her lips, the hue making a cutting contrast against the blackness of his suit, a contrast he for some strange reason deemed sensual. "John is looking for you."

"Why?"

"Apparently, he wants you on a photo, they're having a session."

"Wh- Sentiment?" he starts a question and then instantly drops it, issuing the answer in a tone of supposition, and Irene nods.

"There's a good boy, you learn fast. Off you go, and don't bite people next to you. Remember, I'm the only one privileged to that," she adds, pupils dilating as her eyes narrow in a suggestive smile, voice lowered to quietness. "Hmm. Hold that thought and be back soon."

"Oh, I will," he replies. "The photoshoot will be featuring John's sister, and since they don't get along, it will only take a few moments for them to start arguing, which John will be trying to keep quiet since it's his wedding, and which she'll be trying to expose, for the exact same reason. John is aware of that, as well as of the fact that she is already in the mild stage of inebriation, so not to let her make a bad impression on Mary and her parents, he'll be trying to wrap the photos up as quickly as possible, given her inebriation and his nervousness I'm giving it five minutes thirty seconds flat."

She smiles, slowly, predatory eyes fixed on him, and he feels his blood rush slightly hotter and quicker through his body. When she speaks, her voice is low and throaty, making the size of his pupils match that of her own.

"I swear, Mr Holmes, you'll get more action today than the groom."

He smirks.

* * *

><p>John will kill him.<p>

That was just about the last conscious thought Sherlock had, before her hot, hungry lips pressed against his neck, wiping his brain utterly, completely clean for a moment. So now he buries his face in her hair, trying desperately to control the rush of infinite impatience, and groans in unrestrained pleasure as her teeth expertly nip at his pulse line, before her hot tongue gently bathes the spot.

His head is beginning to spin, both from that sheer, physical lust that he'd never experienced before she breached his mental fortress with her intelligence. Almost ironic and yet also incredibly consistent, that his physical desire came from his intellectual fascination with her. Perhaps that was why it was only her that he desired in his whole life – because for that emotion to be awoken, his intellect had to be pleased and stimulated sufficiently first.

He returns her favours, her neck a long time point of focus for him, and he trails hot, hungry kisses, teasing her and rounding the spot he knows to be particularly sensitive, but not touching it yet. She moans, raising every single hair on the back of his neck, and slips her hand under his shirt, her nails digging into his back, sending a sensation of searing, pleasurable pain. When he at last licks her sensitive spot, collecting the inebriating flavour of her skin, she runs her other hand through his hair, pressing herself closer against him and breathing a quiet moan right into his ear, flooding him with sensual alert.

Her fingers work on the buttons of his shirt with electrifying skill and ease, and he backs slowly, step by step, kissing every spot of her face and neck that is within his reach right now, until soon he's backed up against a wall. More precisely, against a row of coats hanging from the ornate hooks on the wall. The cloakroom was Irene's idea of mischief, and if he had any objections to that, he certainly forgot them when she nibbled on his ear.

She finishes undoing his shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, revealing his chest, and he moans when she leaves what tomorrow would surely be a red bite mark. Her hot breath washes over his exposed skin, causing his flesh to crawl and tingle with reinforced lust and desire, and he pushes the straps of her dress down, hungrily claiming the exposed pale skin, while his hands slide down the curve of her spine, only to come back and tug the dress lower, exposing more of her collarbone. Her breathing increases, pulse hammering as hard and fast as his own, and it is his turn to groan as her hands reach his belt buckle.

He slides a hand under her thigh, hoisting her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, eyes ablaze as she smirks at him smugly from above. He turns around to seat her on a chest of drawers that is just the right, perfect height, and hisses in impatience as she takes mercilessly long to teasingly undo his belt.

Each time they have sex it is a blend of power struggle and slightly paradoxical consideration, and it brings thorough, deliberate pleasure, the torturous sort that he enjoys so much on some surprising, primal level.

And this time, he thinks, brain and body white hot with onslaught of sensations, it will be no different.

* * *

><p>"Yeah, shut up, Harry, I'm doing it, look!" John's angry voice muffled by the door makes Sherlock freeze briefly and look at Irene, only to meet a look of sheer, mischievous glee spread across her features.<p>

The door opens with a rapid yank, and it is the groom who freezes now, seeing his best man right in the middle of tucking his much ruffled shirt back into his trousers, while Irene is doing her hair up again, both straps of her dress still off her shoulders. John gapes for approximately four seconds, and Sherlock uses that time to finish dealing with his shirt.

"Oh, for _God's sake_…!" John hisses, the words barely coming through his clenched throat, and Sherlock can see the wild enjoyment on Irene's face. He looks away, because in his current, still heated state, that expression on her face is more appealing than ever. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing- No! Don't!" he holds up a finger as Sherlock draws a breath to answer.

"Come now, Johnny, don't be so shocked," Irene smiles, finishing with her hair.

"Don't call me that," John scowls, which only heightens her amusement.

"Very well. Your sister wants you to give her… her purse," Irene speaks her deduction, and Sherlock instantly turns to the row of purses laid on the low bench below the coats, tensing as he races against Irene, but he loses by a second – Irene snatches a purse (of course it's Harry's, look at the strap, the buckle and the small mascara smudge!) and hands it to John. "There you go."

John lingers, staring at her, then at Sherlock's annoyed pout caused by his loss, and hesitates, slowly taking the item from Irene.

"Is there some special place where you come from, you… blue-eyed, black-haired, _cheekboned_, freakishly intelligent creatures?" he finally asks.

"Don't be absurd, John," Sherlock scoffs, trying to do his bowtie again. "We're not a separate species."

John shakes his head, before turning around to leave.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

* * *

><p>John is happy and tanned as he returns from his honeymoon. Three weeks in the south-most corner of Portugal with his newlywed wife were the most relaxing and happy twenty-one days of his life, to be absolutely honest. For a rest and holidays, Mary prefers charms of peace and quiet and village life to the show-off-y splendour of hotels, hence they rented a small house in a small village, very close to the Atlantic.<p>

As they return, John gets a text from Sherlock – _Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. Not dangerous. SH_

So he does, while Mary busies herself deciding where to place the mementoes they brought, and which photographs to have framed. He climbs up the steps of 221 B with a sunny sense of familiarity, and without announcing himself by any knocking or stuff like that, he walks towards the living room. While most people find Sherlock's apparent detachment and coldness deterring, John always feels welcome in the flat he and his best friend used to share.

"Sherlock?" he calls out.

"Ah, John, right on time," the detective's deep voice flows with mild contentment as John moves to the door. "Give me your thumb."

"…_What_?"

John unblocks himself from the momentary shock, and enters the room, blinking in surprise at the scene he's met with. At the table sits Sherlock, with an open laptop pushed away to make room for some official stack of documents. Curled up comfortably in his favourite chair, sits Irene, dressed in her lover's robe and wearing only some small make-up.

There's a third person in the room – an official looking man in a dark grey suit, standing beside Sherlock in a businesslike stiffness, with a briefcase in his hand. John frowns, only now noticing a healing bloody gash on Sherlock's right cheekbone (Irene was probably dismayed), and as he looks to Irene he sees her left wrist wrapped in a thin, discreet brace – because he's a doctor, he instantly knows it's a brace specially designed to support stronger fractures. He doesn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to figure out those two had gotten themselves into some dangerous case lately.

"What's going on…?" he asks slowly. An absurd swirls in him. "Oh, god. Are you two getting married? What did Mycroft say about that?"

"Sun doesn't serve your intelligence, John," Sherlock replies in a voice of boredom. "Now come here, I need your fingerprint. And your signature. And Mary's, when she gets the chance."

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

The detective sighs and finally turns to look at him properly.

"We're drawing up a security measure," Irene explains as she rises from the chair, stretching like a cat, and slinks over to Sherlock, running a hand through his curls.

"Care to develop that for me?"

"As you probably can see, we both have recently had a bit of a… dangerous situation," Sherlock makes a vague gesture with his hand. "And we've come to realise that our jobs, habits, as well as the defect of… _sentiment,_" he wrinkled his nose. "Can leave Nero without both parents in one go."

John's eyebrows rise high on his forehead, his throat instinctively going dry as a sick feeling grips his gut at the very idea of losing Sherlock. And Irene, too, he thinks. He's gotten to like her, rather.

"In face of that eventuality, custody of Nero would fall to Mycroft, since he'd remain his closest blood relative," Sherlock continued.

"And no one wants that," Irene's lips stretch in a small smile that Sherlock's face mirrors.

"Yes. So we've decided that we'd… like you and Mary to have Nero, should we both die before he's eighteen," Sherlock finishes.

John gapes. His head is empty in utter shock for a moment, possibly bigger than the one he'd been hit with when reading the email announcing Nero's existence. When at last any thought comes to his head, it's that only Sherlock could give him such a welcome.

"Knock-knock," Mrs Hudson's voice unexpectedly breaks the silence, the landlady standing in the doorframe, holding Nero's hand in hers. "Darlings, if you don't mind, I'll take the little one for a bit of a walk in the park. Oh, hello, John, dear, so good to see you! How was the honeymoon?"

"Lovely, thank you, Mrs Hudson…"

"Go ahead and away," Sherlock replies almost simultaneously. "We're busy."

Mrs Hudson huffs, but without anger, and walks away with Nero, gushing over the child and promising him a pony ride. John clears his throat, the episode helping him to shake off the shock.

"Right… right… well, thanks, that's an honour, really…" he fumbles for the right words.

"A calculated choice," Sherlock corrects with a dismissive wince.

"You're both what's normally called pleasant people, and you'll provide him with emotional stability and thorough care," Irene explains, hand slowly running over Sherlock's head, ruffling his hair, and John is a bit surprised to see his friend not only doesn't look bothered, but actually almost looks pleased. "He knows you both already, which also is a plus, and he likes you."

"And you're both loyal," Sherlock adds.

"Quaintly so," completes Irene. Somehow, in their mouths, that doesn't really sound like a compliment, but John is long since used to that. "Also, we've both settled a fund for his support, in case of any emergencies, so the financial issue is practically nonexistent, believe me," she winks.

He can. Sherlock certainly has some sources of family money stashed away somewhere, and Irene… well, she probably has even more than he.

"But you'll have to promise to grant Mycroft a steady, regular access to Nero," Sherlock adds, somewhat surprisingly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you and Mary are both good for the emotional security, but in the intelligence department… Mycroft's influence would help develop Nero's mind."

"Right, yeah, thanks. Okay…" he blows out a breath of air, scratching his head. Everything is still whirling a bit in his mind. "Right, I'll… talk it over with Mary… but I think she'll say yes."

"Good. So sign and press," Sherlock taps the pen against the lined spot on the document.

"God, Sherlock… give me a minute, would you? I said, I need to talk it over with Mary…"

The next day the notary is at 221 B again, and John and Mary officially place their signatures and fingerprints on the documents. Mycroft pops by, as always when his little brother is up to something official, and isn't entirely pleased, especially since he's now adamant that Sherlock and Irene will get themselves both imminently killed trying to do something stupid, like save each other. Sherlock gives a small cough that sounds distinctly like _Karachi_, while Irene coos about _uncle Mycroft's_ concerns.

John still feels honoured, no matter how stupid Sherlock would probably think it is. But as he signs the document, he does it with the deepest hope that it will never, _never_ have to be acted upon.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you liked it! :) Reviews are beautiful and loved! :D<strong>


End file.
